


Metamorphosis

by orphan_account



Series: Transformations [1]
Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Bestiality, F/M, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the DA Kink Meme:</p><p>Bloodmage!M!Hawke/Fenris - to sum up, M!Hawke gets tired of all the dancing around and takes what he wants, controlling Fenris' body and turning him into his thrall. Emphasis on the fact that Hawke's only controlling Fenris' body & Fenris's mind eventually breaking. Would like to see deliberate attempts to humiliate/break Fenris to facilitate this, from selling Fenris' body to forcing him to serve as the Mabari's bitch. Inclusion of Fenris' highly ironic line "I am yours" a definite plus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> I'd never written bestiality before this. Also, there is a sequel in progress to fix it because I can't live with bad ends.

"I like to solve problems," Hawke whispered. In this dark room, there was only the sound of their breathing: Fenris through his nose, the thick swath of silk Hawke had tied over his mouth rendering the alternative impossible. He was drifting, and knew that was dangerous.

The stone on his back was so cold it burned. His wrists were bound to his chest, his knees bound together. It felt almost strange to realize he was naked and Hawke was tracing blood runes on his face. How had this happened?

Why?

Some distant spark of clarity must have flickered in his eyes, for Hawke paused, finishing a line with the tip of his finger and smiling down at him. "It's for your own good, Fenris. You said it yourself, you can't be trusted."

He wanted to say, _that's not true_.

"If you killed your friends before at the whim of this...Danarius," Hawke began to stroke the hair away from Fenris's face, deceptively gentle. "There's no way to guarantee you wouldn't turn on us, too. None except this."

Being spoken to was bringing back a coherent pattern of thought and he realized, at last, what Hawke was doing to him. Terrified-- angry-- he struggled to move, found that it was useless and settled for glaring, promising death when he escaped. And he would escape. He always had; even a magister couldn't hold him with the markings he wore eroding their control. Not forever.

"Shh. I want you to sleep, now." Hawke smiled that horribly broken smile he'd taken to wearing after his mother had died, and Fenris could see the madness lurking there. It hurt, in a way, to know that even Hawke could be broken. He wondered why he hadn't seen it before. "Sleep, and dream."

He thought to struggle, for he submitted to no man's will, but found his eyelids growing heavy, his breathing deep and slow. Drowsily, he experienced a slow and creeping panic but it could not flower.

And when he woke, he was alone, still in his armor, still in the mansion. Confused-- horrified-- he went to the only mirror he'd left even partially intact, desperately checking his head for the bump he should have felt, checking his skin for flecks of blood. His wrists bore no mark of the ropes that had bound him.

Nothing. Nothing.

Just a nightmare.

It was only after he was sure it had been the machinations fo his own mind that he let himself accept how uneasy he was, sagging with relief against the wall and catching his breath. The very thought that Hawke could--

No.

Hawke would never do such a thing. He was simply panicking. The letter from his sister had upset him so greatly-- scarcely a wonder his thoughts had turned to what might happen if Hawke were like Danarius, if Hawke were worse.

He thought to visit the man, to ask him for help-- help he would desperately need, if he were to face Danarius-- but spent his morning pacing, instead. The day dragged on; no one came to his door, asked him to help with their peculiar answers, pulled him out to the Hanged Man for a drink and a game of cards. Normally, he might have slipped out and gone to Lowtown, sought the opportunity to watch the waves or wander Kirkwall, hoped that the act would clear his head. There had been times enough that he had wondered why he stayed in Kirkwall, but it was clear enough to him that the place was built like a fortress. It was hard not to want to stay behind such embattlements, even if the weeping statues all over the city made him distinctly uncomfortable. So little could hope to get to him, here.

And then night fell, and everything changed.

A sudden, sharp pull was the only warning, as if his skin had a loose thread and someone was ripping it free. He felt himself engulfed in fire, bathed in it: power drawn from the lyrium tattoos, feeding the spell that had been painted on his face, his eyelids, his hands. It crushed and choked him, crawling until it had enveloped his whole body, and when the pain subsided he was walking down the steps to Lowtown, his steps quick and soft.

He wanted to know where he was going, why, but couldn't twitch a single muscle, couldn't even decide the direction of his eyes. The runes Hawke had painted onto him stung and itched and he could feel them smoldering as they sank deeper into his skin. Fool. He had been such a fool-- of course the man had turned to bloodmagic. There wasn't a mage left in Kirkwall that hadn't turned to that profane art.

And suddenly, as his hand opened a door to a secluded little hut that looked abandoned, there was Hawke, sitting in a small chair in the corner. The man looked hollow and frail, and even though Fenris would have killed him, given the chance-- even so, there were still these lingering feelings of regret and sorrow, this misplaced desire to comfort him. Had it been the day before, he knew he would have done it.

Hawke looked horribly pale. He was clutching a scrap that Fenris realized had been the veil-- the veil on his mother's corpse, when they had found her too late. If the thick bandages up his arm were any indication, the blood he had used the night before was his own.

"Fenris," he whispered, wriggling the fingers of his left hand distractedly, almost unnoticeably. He had made such gestures constantly throughout their association, and Fenris had never thought anything of them.

This particular gesture forced him to his knees, and brought him crawling hand over hand to Hawke's side. He could feel his body moving, feel his own attempts to fight it, as though he were wrapped in thick armor that jerked and dragged him about however it liked. When he was at Hawke's feet, his body stopped, head tipped up to meet Hawke's eyes.

Mad eyes. Sorrowful eyes. Hawke was squeezing the veil, but tried to smile at Fenris, gently stroking his face. "What do you think, hm? You're safe now. We're all safe. If Danarius tries to come for you, he'll find he can't do anything to take you back." Hawke laughed, wincing. "We'll just _kill_ him."

He wanted to tell Hawke exactly what he thought, and was surprised when the words made it past his lips, fluidly swearing in a tongue he doubted the other man knew, bitterly denouncing him. It was cold in this house and his body was sore with the marks, burning with them, but he could not move, could not even turn his head. At least he could speak.

"Surprised?" Tucking the veil away in one of the many pockets of his robe, Hawke leaned back in his chair, watching Fenris with tired eyes and a slight frown. "It's sad. I hoped-- you would understand."

"I understand that you're a monster," Fenris spat. "Given the chance to take, you _took_. There's nothing more to know."

" _You_ took," Hawke snapped, suddenly alive and full and flaring with anger and a curious, almost possessive jealousy. "You came to me, _begging_. Needing: and I gave myself to you, freely. As soon as you'd had what you wanted, you left. Was it power, Fenris? Was that what you wanted?"

He grit his teeth, wishing he could rise, could face Hawke eye to eye. The mage did not grant him that comfort. "No."

"Hah!" Raising a hand, Hawke drew back to strike him, trembling with rage. His eyes were wild, but started to dim, and then all that was left was his sorrow. He put his hand over his eyes instead, softly weeping.

In the years since that night, Fenris had never realized that he had hurt anyone. He had never, if he admitted it, thought Hawke could _be_ hurt and never worried about the possibility. Never thought he would need to console the man, to be sure, and now he didn't want to: not like this. Not with his body's actions beyond his control. Still, he was surprised, and confused. "I don't understand," he admitted at last, feeling uncomfortable to see this side of Hawke, feeling a gray and sick regret that it might have been possible to avert this. "What did I take from you?"

"Don't think I didn't notice," Hawke growled softly, leaning forward, taking Fenris's chin. "The way you looked at other people. I felt your claws in my back when we--" he very nearly said something, something tender, but caught himself. "When we _fucked._ You just wanted to prove to yourself that somehow, someway, you could overpower mages. If you could have it anywhere, you were satisfied; and once you'd had it, you left."

This was not the case at all, but Hawke pinched his fingers when Fenris tried to answer, silencing him as his throat abruptly stopped working. He choked loudly.

"I waited for you." Bitterness, and that uncharacteristic, terrifying anger. Was it really Hawke he saw, in that twisted face, or the corruption spreading through him? Fenris didn't have the chance to wonder, as his body bent to the floor, his lips and tongue seeking out Hawke's lightly slippered feet.

He could do nothing, save tug the soft laces that fastened the shoes until they came undone with his teeth. He took the first shoe into his lips, gently removing it, as Hawke lifted his foot and watched with a ravenous sort of hunger. When Fenris had him unshod, he began kissing Hawke's ankles, quivering in the pit of his stomach with rage, unable even to speak out against this-- this-- this _degrading_ behavior.

"Now, we'll do it my way," Hawke told him in a quiet voice that set his nerves on edge, as he lifted a foot and pushed it into Fenris's face, slowly shoving him down until his head was pinned between Hawke's foot and the floor. "You'll learn your place, in time. I-- have business to attend to, during the day. But when the nights come, I'll check up on you." Hawke nodded once, curling his toes against Fenris's ear, in his hair. "Once I'm sure you understand-- then-- then maybe things can be as they should have been."

Then he stood, and left: and Fenris, still on hands and knees with his head down, felt the world go blank.

He knew nothing.

Then, daylight searing in through the door. A door he had opened.

Men, standing in the doorway; three of them, Antivan by the look of them. He stepped back, holding the door wider for them, let them enter before he closed it behind them.

The house, which he had not had the wits to assess the night before, was furnished with three chairs and a hastily assembled pile of feather down and hay, wrapped in a thin sheet and masquerading as a bed. Fenris heard his voice speaking and wondered how Hawke could control him from so far away, how Hawke could know what he made Fenris do while he wasn't even in the room.

A chill went down his spine at the realization that Hawke might well be going about his business exactly as before. How long had he been a bloodmage? How long had he been thinking about this so-called solution?

"I heard you're pretty good for a copper lay," says the first of the three men. He had been beautiful once, Fenris was sure; he had a scar along his face now, and his long dark hair was wild with inattention. He smiled easily enough, grabbing Fenris's arm. (When had he had time to divest himself of his armor? Where did he get these ratty clothes?) Fenris couldn't resist as the Antivan man pulled him close and kissed him, shoving a tongue that tasted of stale wine into his mouth.

His body responded, welcoming the man, and when they broke apart, his mouth smiled. "That's for you to decide."

They crowded around him, demanding kisses, pushing him down, pulling him onto their dicks. They didn't want much: the first man gripped his head tightly while Fenris found himself sucking on his cock. The other two took turns behind, praising how easily they slipped inside, how supple his body was.

Drooling cum, he thanked them for their compliments and when they were done, they gave him their copper coins, which he set aside in the corner. As soon as they'd gone, he felt a curious tingle and suddenly, he was free-- could move, could feel his own hands, could direct his own body with his own thoughts.

Gagging on the taste of what was already long-swallowed, he scoured the hovel for his armor. Unable to find it, he pulled on the loose pants and shirt that he had removed in order to service the three men when they arrived. Better these than nothing at all-- and who knew how long Hawke's lapse of control would last?

He licked his lips in a panic, racing for the door, shuddering in disgust at the feeling of semen seeping slowly down the insides of his thighs. He did not want this. He would have to run, and run now. Far from Kirkwall, far from anyplace where Hawke might ever find him.

As soon as his fingers touched the door, he lost control again, as his body politely opened the portal, peeked out, and then shut it again. As Fenris snarled in rage and beat at the walls of his own mind, his body laid down on the makeshift bed, stretching out there, comfortably napping until there was another knock at his door.

This time, it was a woman; she looked at him fearfully, handing him her copper, and demanded he deflower her as soon as possible. His voice, rich and purring, teasing and sultry, asked her, "Do you really want it to be over so soon?"

Again, as they fell to sex, he could do nothing but watch as his body writhed happily beneath her, hands guiding her hips so that she could ride his erection without any effort. Her heaving breasts were almost as large as Isabela's, and her face was young-- perhaps not even twenty, yet. When she neared her climax, his body ground his hips up into her, urging her on until she was crying out in pleasure, clawing his chest: "I'm coming!"

Another copper piece. As soon as she was gone, another dizzying moment of freedom. His stomach turned as he began to understand the nature of Hawke's plan, felt his body's lingering sense of arousal and the shaky underside of it all, a terrifying exhaustion that made his knees too weak even to pace. He could not leave unless Hawke decided to allow him to, so stopped trying. By evening, he was huddled in the far corner, hissing to himself as he went over all the things he would do to Hawke if he ever got free again and saved himself.

Then the door opened, and there was Hawke, with a small basket of food and a wet cloth; Hawke, who sat down in the chair again and made Fenris crawl to him with a wriggle of his fingers, wiping his face and feeding him fruits and cheese. Hawke, who gently removed Fenris's pants and spread his legs, sitting there behind him, running the wet cloth up and down the inside of Fenris's legs to clean away the semen there. The icy touch of the cloth on his asshole made his muscles jump and his breath catch (but he wasn't sure if that was him, or Hawke forcing him), and then it was gone, and Hawke made him pull his pants back on.

Hawke never did anything to him but stare, his eyes hard with jealousy and bleeding sorrow. Once Fenris had been cleaned (and was hard and aching for touch from someone who wassn't just buying a whore), Hawke rose and left, and Fenris quickly passed out, pushed into subconsciousness by the bloodmagic net pulling tighter and tighter over him.

By the third day, he was beginning to find himself unsure if he had repeat customers. He could venture outside, so long as he had no intent to flee the city-- he wondered how Hawke knew-- and often did, sometimes dragging a new customer back to his home, begging them to fuck him.

Nothing Danarius had done was like this: Danarius had forced him to sit perfectly still or be burned by brands, but never wrested control from his body. Danarius had never really stolen his control, only his rights.

Now he couldn't be sure if it was Hawke or himself, calling softly to the ladies passing by to have a taste of a bargain; if it was Hawke's idea or his, that he went to a seedy tavern in Darktown and offered himself to the bar at large. They took the offer gladly, bending him over the bar, fucking him while he sucked off the bartender, whose groans of pleasure were intoxicating and reminded him of those fleeting moments he had actually shared in bed with Hawke.

It was difficult to remember those moments, tangled as they were with other memories he wanted to put aside: but they were there, the sweet smell of Hawke's skin and the shocked and desperate moan he had made when Fenris sucked his throat. Bloodmagic pulled into his skin, tighter, tighter, a cage that was melding to his body, and he wriggled his ass for more, he held a dick in each hand and ground his hips into the bar, lavishing attention on the left, then the right, switching back and forth and stroking them even as some large man behind him stroked his insides. His eyes rolled with pleasure.

His pleasure? Forced pleasure?

His body hummed with sex. When they asked if he would be back he swore he would; and he'd give them a discount. He began to forget the nights, for they were weary affairs, spent crawling to Hawke while self-loathing warred with his old hatred (and the stabbing pain of hurt, at what Hawke was doing to him, kept doing to him), while he could say nothing, do nothing except accept Hawke's hungry gazes, and be forced down into sleep.

Days began to blur into a long and winding spiral of madness. Sometimes, Hawke still dragged him back into reality, parading him around like a marionette on a string, bringing him along to fight at their sides while they battled dragons, set wrongs to right-- sometimes even sending him to socialize with the others, to play cards and laugh and talk, to make sure no one knew what was going on. Hawke gave him the opportunity to sleep less and less-- it hardly mattered, as it was not HIS mind guiding his actions-- and sent him to nobles in Hightown, to the Gallows, to appease the templars (who drank in the lyrium from his skin while they fucked him, and it hurt, and it burned, and they twisted his nipples and Hawke forced him to scream, coming so hard he shook).

There was a day when a lonely Qunari, who had been collecting the swords of his fallen brethren, came to Fenris; and while he spread Fenris slowly, slowly with his massive fingers, Fenris hissed the words of the Qun, shaking, groaning when he began to enter.

"Am I too much for you, small one?" groaned the Qunari.

Fenris wanted to say _you're hurting me_ , but in truth, it only ached, and it was a pleasant ache, and instead he made a low, hungry, animalistic sound, not quite a growl. Nothing was as big as the Qunari; nothing sank so deep. He could feel his muscles jumping in protest, even as the stinging heat of it jammed against every part of him, forcing him to drool with stupid pleasure.

That night when Hawke came, Fenris couldn't think. His mind was a cloudy mess of aching pain, confusion. He felt the catch of the bloodmagic tugging on his mind and welcomed it, welcomed unconsciousness.

When he woke, he was in Hawke's estate, nestled on the floor.

He opened his eyes, blearily aware that the thing before him was not a man. It growled softly, and he recoiled, staring at it a moment before he understood, at last, why it was here. He could smell Hawke, and glanced up to find him watching.

Hawke had always been fond of the mabari; he did not have one of his own, but like all Fereldans, he had a soft spot in his heart for them. Here they sat in Hawke's bedroom, now, and from nowhere the man had assembled a pack. Even with sword in hand, Fenris would have felt trepidation, staring down these canny beasts. He could see that there was only one solution to the situation; he bowed his head, and when the dog nipped his ear (painful; he bit his lip against an angry curse) he pushed himself up, presenting them.

They sniffed first. Curious, they looked back at Hawke, then at the elf who was offering himself to them. One licked, curiously, and he shivered, moaning despite his better judgment, trying to spread himself so that they might take his invitation.

An uneasy realization flickered in his stomach, turning over like nausea, but he ignored it.

The dogs-- and there were five in the pack Hawke had assembled, somehow-- had caught scent of something else, something Fenris could feel Hawke had pressed into his body to lure them. They began to lick his legs, sniffing him excitedly, barking.

"Do it," he begged them. His face was hot; his mind was a chaotic whirl of curiosity, of hunger. What would it be like? What would they do?

He wanted to leave, but couldn't bring himself to try. The alpha dog barked once, nudging aside the others, and mounted him.

He should have screamed, should have shouted, cursed, should have fought but instead the dog's prick shoved deep inside him and he _moaned_. They moved together like base animals, even though the mabari was so much more, and the more it fucked him, the harder he panted, fingers scrabbling over the floor as he tried to find something, anything to grab onto. The shape-- the shape was different, that was the strangest thing. It reached parts of him he hadn't known were being left untouched, it made his toes curl and his dick jump. He came, and the dogs kept fucking him. One after the other, they slipped in; some circled back, once, twice, until they all were laying on the ground, content, their tongues lolling, and Fenris still waited, shaking with need, dripping with their semen, with his own.

He could feel the sweat standing out on his skin, the laughter bubbling in his chest. He could feel the ghost-sensation of still being fucked and it made his hips twitch. Hawke stood up at last, approaching him, and reached down to pet his hair.

"Good boy, Fenris," he whispered quietly, even as Fenris began to laugh, rubbing his face eagerly into that hand. He could smell the musk on Hawke's fingers and it was intoxicating. "Good boy."

"Did you--" he gasped, as the cool cloth Hawke so often carried ran along his thighs, wiping him clean and leaving a tingling trail of hungry skin in its wake. He was aching for Hawke's touch, especially after so long without it. "Did you watch?" he asked at last, breathless, hopeful.

The smile on Hawke's face was shy; beautiful. He only nodded, and Fenris answered it tentatively with his own. Eager: happy.

"Was it good?"

"Yes," Hawke said, sitting down on his bed and patting it. Fenris crawled up to join him, eager to touch and have him, desperate to be fucked by him. Was it too soon? "Yes, it was very good."

Fenris swallowed thickly, lowering his lips to Hawke's chest and biting his nipple lightly through his robe. "You should use me, as well."

Catching his breath in a hiss, Hawke lifted a hand to stroke Fenris's ears, purring. "Should I?"

"Yes."

"And why is that?"

Fenris didn't hesitate, though some shadow of a fragment of himself caught in his throat as he answered. "Because I asked them to mate with me. I am no slave." This was not enough, and he urgently pushed Hawke down into the bed, crawling up him, sucking on his throat. Anything to chase away that grim cast to his expression. "It was my choice," he promised, with a sultry smile. "I am yours. Let me be yours."

Hawke smiled back, very gently, and drew Fenris down for a passionate kiss. "Gladly."


End file.
